What He Isn't
by Soursugar88
Summary: Everyone has a wish, a hope, an impossible fantasy, that, even when they know it'll never happen, that'll won't stop themselves from fantasizing about it. Turbo's no exception.


_A/N: So, I'm on vacation, and my mom dragged me to a mall with the excuse that 'it's sightseeing!' and what was I supposed to do when she's clothes shopping? Do a Productive Thing. Enjoy. *unenthusiastic handwave*_

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**_What He Isn't_**

The racer crept out of the house he was residing in, trying his hardest not to make any noise whatsoever, since he had two brothers who lived in the same house. They had a habit of waking up when he least wanted them to, and he wanted to be alone for now. He slowly turned the knob to the front door and pulled it open, wincing as it creaked. He robotically walked outside and straight, his only destination requirement that it be grassy. After all, TurboTime, his home game, was a tiny little world, so he couldn't afford to be picky with the landscape. He soon reached a stretch of grass far away from everything, even the exit. It wasn't much, but it was enough to let one forget they were in a game.

His objective exactly.

He stood straight up in the middle of the grass, slowly relaxing to a more relaxed pose. He wormed his four toes in between the grass, since he didn't bother putting on shoes, to reduce the noise factor. He closed his eyes, deep in thought. At this point, he could've been mistaken for a statue, but he broke that illusion by muttering something. He seemed to believe the words with every fiber of his being, through the way he spoke them, to the way he straightened up as he said them.

"I'm not in a game," he said. "I'm human. I don't live in a cramped little world, I'm free."

He began to get progressively louder.

"I'm not made of pixels. I'm made of tissue, and organs. Real organs, not mimicry."

He seemed to get calmer, even relaxing his body a little bit. He's more at ease saying these things, quite like if they were truly real; if he wasn't just pretending.

"And my eyes don't glow. They're not this freakish yellow. They're golden. And everyone who sees them wants them for themselves, and they don't laugh."

His tone changed. He's growing desperate, like he's ceasing to believe his words, and is now trying to regain that belief.

"I'm a racer in the real world, against so many people, and..."

"A- and, and my hair; it's not that red, it's duller. But only by a little. Just a little."

He sat down at the end of that sentence and pulled off his helmet, which he wore for the sole purpose of pulling it off, revealing his shaggy, bright red hair.

Another tone change. Now, his demeanor seemed like the way it was when he first started talking, but if you paid attention you'd detect a disbelieving undertone in his voice. He knew what he was saying was impossible, but at the same time, he seemed hopeful, like the impossibilities he's listing will somehow come to pass. Though, he seemed to be running out of things to say to feed his fantasy.

"My skin isn't grey. It's a nice... What do they call it... Tan? Yes. Tan."

He stops talking for a moment, eyes still clenched shut. He opens his mouth, only to close it again. Finally, he settles on something.

"And I don't wear a racing jumpsuit all the time! I actually have human clothes, because that's what I am. Human." He smiled for a split second, it vanishing as he thought of one last detail. His voice was shaky, like he knew the outcome, and was reluctant to reach it. He shouted as well, hoping his volume would snuff out the shakiness in his voice.

"And my name's not Turbo!" He yelled. "It's... It's... It's..."

He can't finish this one. He keeps trying; starting the sentence off, and leaving it unfinished every time, getting quieter as he went. For, you see, this is one thing he didn't have. He was, after all, a video game character, and therefore had no sense of what real-world human names were like, this preventing him from creating one for himself.

"I'm Turbo," he admitted in a defeated tone, finally reopening his eyes, and reluctantly placing his helmet back on his head.

"I'm a character in a racing game." He admitted the truth to himself.

"And that's all I'll ever be."

He trudged back towards his house, slumped over. He had a bit of a walk ahead of him; his house was on the other side of his game.

Everyone has a wish, a hope, an impossible fantasy, that, even when they know it'll never happen, that'll won't stop themselves from fantasizing about it.

Turbo's no exception.

**~THE END~**


End file.
